To begin, I should describe how
the world flight project developed. I have already told that the fond idea of
acquiring a multi-motored plane first took form when I was flying over the Gulf
of Mexico. After being just a passenger over the Atlantic in 1928, I wanted to
duplicate the crossing alone in my own plane. I pursued the dream of a solo
flight for four years before it became a reality in 1932. One ocean led
naturally to another and two years later, through hard work and generous help,
the opportunity came to try the Pacific. After that crossing from Honolulu to
Oakland I thought of a hundred things I could do with a new plane. I was so full
of ideas that they spilt over and my husband had to listen to my burbling by the
hour. Not only did I want to make a longer flight than any I had attempted
before, but I wanted to test some human reactions to flying. Of myself, and
others as I fond them, I planned to make human guinea pigs.

The aviation industry has been
so busy with mechanical and economic problems that the effects of flying on
personnel have not always been given the attention they deserve. I am interested
in finding out whether one kind of food is better than another during flight;
i.e., the effects of altitude on metabolism. Also I should like to know the rte
at which fatigue is induced by the myriad instruments a modern pilot must use.
What will stratosphere flying do to creatures accustomed to the dense air of
lower altitudes? Are men and women different in their reactions to air travel?
If so, how? And perhaps, why? With the modern plane it seems to me that too
often in the attainment of speed other considerations have been sacrificed.
Safety, especially. Perhaps we would do well to go back to the elementary
flying-machines of the early days and work forward from them all over gain.

The famous portrait by Edward
Steichen,

taken for Vanity Fair magazine, May 1932.

The existing standards of speed,
size and luxury cannot practically be abandoned, now that the air-travelling
public has become accustomed to them. But rather than focusing on the problem of
making tomorrow's planes bigger and faster, I, for one, would like to see the
technical genius of present-day aviation - and the industry possesses
extraordinary genius - develop a plane that actually could stay in the air while
moving perhaps only forty miles an hour, and one that in a pinch could land at
thirty. Which, I think, can come without sacrificial top speeds, size or
comfort. Many flyers feel the modern plane has become too complex. In the
cockpit of my own Electra, for instance, there are over a hundred dials and
gadgets which I either have to look at or twiddle. The pilot's prayer, I am
sure, is not for more cunning and specialized instruments, but for a
simplification of those existing. However, these are but the opinions of one
flyer who finds herself particularly interested in the human aspects of the
machine, as it affects those using it.

For a couple of years I had been
pleasantly associated with Purdue University of Lafayette, Indiana, as a
periodic and rather peripatetic faculty member. Purdue is a forward-looking
institution building an important aviation department. It is one of the few
universities in the world that has its own landing field. Additionally, it is
co-educational. Of its 6,000 students approximately 1,000 are women. The
problems and opportunities of these girls were quite as much my concern as
aviation matters. Perhaps I have something of a chip on my shoulder when it
comes to modern feminine education. Often youngsters are sadly miscast. I have
known girls who should be tinkering with mechanical things instead of making
dresses, and boys who would do better at cooking than engineering. One of my
favourite phobias is that girl, especially those whose tastes aren't routine,
often don't get a fair break. The situation is not new. It has come down through
the generations, an inheritance of age-old customs which produced the corollary
that women are bred to timidity.

The mechanical-minded boy may
have a field-day from the time his legs are long enough to toddle to the corner
garage. for all anyone cares, he may be weaned on piston rings and carburettors,
and may remain beautifully grimy for indefinite periods. but with his sister it
is different. With rare exceptions, the delights of finding out what makes a
motor go, or batting the bumps out of a bent fender, are joys reserved for
masculinity. The girl who wants to do that sort of thing has such a hard time
finding a place to do it that for long I have harboured a very special pet
ambition. Among my other somewhat suppressed desires it is classified under the
letter "T." The imaginary file card reads, "Tinkering" For Girls Only." The plan
is to endow a catch-as-catch-can machine-shop, where girls ma tinker to their
heart's content with motors, lathes, jigsaws, gadgets, and diverse hickies of
their own creation. Where they may sprawl on their back, peering up into the
innards of engines, and likely as not get oil in their hair. Where they can make
things and have the fun of finding out how things are made, why engines perk,
clocks tick, radios yowl, and something of the everyday mechanical marvels which
- given the chance, many of them would master quite as well as Brother Bill. And
emerge somewhere in the scale between grease-monkeys and inventors. or,
negatively, with at least their lack of attitude revealed. All of which is a
considerable digression in an account which is supposed to deal with my
world-circling project. The subjects, however are related.

The flight was to be the
forerunner of activities at Purdue, where miraculously, there exists a real
comprehension of the quaint view-point I have tried to indicate. Practical
mechanical training, engineering and the like, is available without
discouragement to women students thee. An alluring field was opened in our
discussions of a course to be designed in "household engineering." Many a
stay-at-home girl would welcome practical training in what to do when the
door-ell fails to function, the plumbing clogs, the gas-range leaks, the fuse
blows out, the windmill pump goes haywire, and the thousand-and-one other
mechanical indispositions that can occur about the house, often easily enough
fixed if one has rudimentary knowledge how to fix them.

Which, perhaps, explains my
enthusiasm for Purdue, woman wise as well as aviation-wise.

One day last summer president
Edward C. Elliott of Purdue asked m husband what most interested me beyond
immediate academic maters. Mr. Putnam, a practising believer in wives doing what
they do best, is an approving and helpful partner in all my projects. So he
divulged my suppressed pilot's yearning for a bigger and better airplane. Not
only to go to far places further and faster and more safely, but essentially for
pioneering in aviation education and technical experimentation. So, in due time,
I came into possession of m two-motor Lockheed Electra. Its purchase was made
possible chiefly through the Purdue Research foundation, aided by such friends
as J.K. Lilly, Vincent Bendix, and others, mostly within the aviation industry,
and by he generosity of manufacturers who seemed to feel that my activities were
helpful in promoting aviation, and especially, perhaps, in overcoming women's
"sales resistance" to air travel.

I had attended to undertake a
year's research with m plane and thereafter plan some interesting flight. but
circumstances made it appear wiser to postpone the research and attempt the
flight first. My "flying laboratory" became equipped with all that is modern in
instruments. It has a Sperry Gyro-Pilot, an automatic device which actually
flies the ship unaided. There is a Bendix radio direction finder which points
the way to any selected broadcasting station within its range. 'there is the
finest two-way voice and code Western Electric communication equipment in whose
installation the Bell Laboratories, under the aegis of Dr. Frank B. Jewett,
co-operated. The plane itself is a two-motor, all-metal monoplane, with
retractable landing gear. It is a big brother to the two Lockheed Vegas which I
have used on previous flights. It has a normal cruising speed of about 180 miles
an hour and a top speed in excess of 200. With the special gasoline tanks that
have been installed in the fuselage, capable of carrying 1,150 gallons, it has a
cruising radius in excess of 4,000 miles. With full load the ship weighs about
15,000 pounds. it is powered with two Wasp "H" engines, developing 1100
horse-power.

Anticipation, I suppose,
sometimes exceeds realization. Whatever the final outcome of the trip itself,
certainly there was extraordinary interest in the months of planning for it.
Preparation, I have often said, is rightly two-thirds of any venture.
Preparation for the world flight occupied many months. There were the mechanical
problems of the ship and its operation and far-flung arrangements for the
journey. When you plan an automobile journey through New England, or, say, to
Yellowstone, the needed maps can be had at any filling station. but with a
flight around the world, much of it off the beaten paths of established air
transport, there are complexities. It took many weeks to get all the maps and
charts we wanted. Once secured, the courses to be followed wee laid out in
detail on them, mostly by Commander Clarence Williams of Los Angeles, who had
helped me plot previous flights. In final form flight chart are really lovely
things. On them are drawn the compass courses with their periodic changes,
distances, airports and the like. As supplementary data accumulates the marginal
notes assume encyclopaedic proportions. They concern details about airports,
service facilities, prevailing winds, characteristics of local weather and
terrain, critical altitudes, emergency landing possibilities and the like.

Amelia took
delivery of the Electra on July 24, 1936, her 39th birthday. shortly
therefore,

she flew it to
Purdue. Here she is at the Purdue airport, her students lined up in front.

In assembling the precious data
a tower of helpfulness was Jacques de Sibour, an old friend of ours who, with
his wife Violette (both pilots), is intimately familiar with flying conditions
in much of the most difficult territory involved. All important in our budding
campaign were the arrangements for fuel and service. As our plans progressed the
world-wide organization of the Standard Oil Company of New jersey and its
associates co-operated in assembling information and in "spotting" fuel
supplies at designated points. At certain fields scattered here and there,
competent mechanics sere provided for and spare parts assembled. Living with
those maps and charts was absorbing and instructive. My knowledge of geography -
at least theoretically - increased from wee and take-off conditions at African
airports, was an adventure in itself. Some day I would like to write a piece
about the fun of voyaging with maps - without ever leaving home.

The proposed route, as
originally laid out, was from Oakland or Honolulu, thence to Port Darwin in
Northern Australia, via new Guinea and a tiny pin-point of an island called
Howland, half a degree north of he equator about 1,800 miles southwest of
Hawaii. That was part one. Part two, a lengthier stretch over fabulous lands,
extended from Australia to the west coast of Africa by way of Arabia. The third
section was the South Atlantic. The fourth from Brazil north. I felt that if I
could do an on of these creditably I should not be disappointed.

While on previous flights I had
always been alone, this time I planned to take a navigator with me. In three
hops the Electra and I had to cross more than 6,500 miles of water, two of them
broken by no land, whatever, and all the way with no intermediate landing
fields. It did not seem good sense to try such a crossing without the aid of
celestial navigation. On two previous ocean flights and from Mexico across the
gulf I've dead reckoned" and made my landfall. But then I was aiming at
continents, not small spots of land in the mightiest ocean. Hawaii, 2,400 miles
from California, would be hard to find b this method alone. Howland island -
dimensions, les than a mile by two miles- 1,800 miles further on, would be a
fantastically tiny target. To take very precaution to find it, I had four means.
on, dead reckoning (which is simply the estimate of position based on speed in a
given direction maintained for a definite time); two, radio bearings from ships
at sea and shore stations; three, a radio direction finder in m cockpit; four,
celestial navigation. So far as m experience goes I believe a lone pilot cannot
take an accurate sight at will, airplanes being the complicated mechanisms hey
are today. So I asked Captain Harry manning to be navigator.

My first meeting with Captain
Manning was when he was skipper of the united States liner Roosevelt, on which I
returned after my first flight across the Atlantic in 1928. On that trip he
talked navigation to me. We agreed that some day, when the chance came, we would
team up on a flight. Now, eight years later, he still wanted to ship on such an
aerial voyage and I still wanted him to. The plane had been fitted with special
windows for his work. he had a good-sized table to hold necessary charts.
Chronometers were beside the table, shock-mounted on rubber. Other "chart-room"
equipment included altimeter, air-speed and drift indicators, pylorus and
compass. The navigator had access to any part of the plane, for a catwalk over
the large gasoline tanks connected the cabin in the rear with the cockpit.

There, briefly, is the Foreword
to the flight. Enacting it occupied me (and many others) through last winter. By
March we were approaching the goal of departure. To a large degree I had been
able to launch previous flights without discussing them in advance. In aviation,
talking before one has anything to talk about is unusually poor policy. So many
things can happen before the take-off to change the plan of action, or even
cause complete abandonment of the adventure, that most pilots prefer to play owl
and say nothing. However, in this case that wasn't possible, one result being
that for many months I was privileged to answer many questions - if I could.

"Why are you attempting
this around-the-world flight?" Such was one of the most pertinent queries, whose
answer may as well be recorded here.

"Because I want to." That was as
near a complete reply as I could devise. here was shining adventure, beckoning
with new experiences, added knowledge of flying, of peoples - of myself. I felt
that with the flight behind m I would be more useful to me and to the program we had planned at Purdue.
Then too, there was my belief that now and
then women should do for themselves what men have already done - and
occasionally what men have not done - thereby establishing themselves as
persons, and perhaps encouraging other women toward greater independence of
thought and action. Some such consideration was a contributing reason for my
wanting to do what I so much wanted to do.

Honolulu Flight

About half past four on the
afternoon of March 17 we took off from Oakland, bound for Honolulu.

That "we" of this departure was
a crew four times more sizeable than I had ever embarked with before. Beside
myself, there was Harry Manning, Fred Noonan, and Paul Mantz. I planned to drop
Mantz at Honolulu, Noonan at Howland, and Manning in Australia. At the time we
said here would be an occasion where it would be the males who'd do the walking
home! but the best laid plans of mice and pilots can go awry, and so awry went
mine that all four of us returned together from the islands by steamer. But
before getting to that, let me set down the story, of the flight itself.

Fred Noonan, tops among aerial
navigators, was a veteran of a dozen Pacific air crossings for Pan American, who
signed on to co-operate with Harry Manning on the first two difficult over-water
hops. Appropriate to the day, which was St. Patrick's, and the forebears the
name Noonan implied, he wore a shamrock. At the last minute Paul Mantz decided
he would like to hitch-hike to Honolulu. I was glad to have him, for his
presence meant not only a relief pilot on the way over, but the benefit of his
technical skill in checking the ship before the long jump to Howland.
Parenthetically, it was only after I had agreed to take him that I awoke to the
fact that I was unwittingly playing the role of understudy to Cupid. For Paul
confessed that the big reason he wanted to go to Honolulu just then wasn't
solely his professional devotion to my project, but the fact that his fiancee,
Mrs. Theresa Miner, was already at sea on the Matson Line steamer Malolo,
Hawaii-bound. It seemed the quickest way for him to rejoin her was to fly with
me.

For a week intermittent rain
held us at Oakland. On the day of our departure more rain fell and from lowering
clouds some final showers descended even while the ship was being gassed. But by
four o'clock the sun shone through gray cloud-banks to the westward, gilding the
Golden Gate with good omen. With 947 gallons of gasoline on board, the Electra
had a heavy load to raise from the wet field. Paul Mantz and I had carefully
worked out the piloting technique of that start. It was a team-play take-off -
each with his job, I at the controls, Paul handling throttles and retractable
landing gear. The 1100 horses of my two Wasp engines leaped so gallantly to the
task of lifting 14,000 pounds into the sky that our wheels left the ground after
the almost unbelievably short run of 1,897 feet - as subsequent measurement
showed. Incidentally, special one hundred octane gasoline gave the motors extra
power.

Once aloft, I throttled down.
engines have human attributes - they usually respond to kindly treatment. With a
long grind before them I wished to give mine the least possible punishment. The
first few hours of flight are often indicative of what is to come, mechanically.
Therefore, I wanted daylight for a while in order to be able to watch more
easily plane and engine reactions. further, a sharp horizon line is an aid to
pilots, whether they are conscious of it or not, in keeping an overloaded plane
on even keel. As we passed through it, the golden Gate was truly golden. Behind
us dark clouds closed in. But westward the sky was cheerful with late afternoon
sunlight, which burnished the slopes of Mount Tamalpais on one hand and
story-book San Francisco on the other, as we headed westward over the great new
bridge, a thread of steel below us, specked with crawling tiny beetles that were
automobiles homeward bound.

Just after the fateful crash in
Hawaii. By the time the plane was repaired, world

weather patterns had changed and
Amelia had to change the direction of her world flight from west to east.

An hour out from alameda we
sighted Pan American's Clipper, silhouetted against a towering bank of cumulus,
sun-flecked clouds. We flew near enough actually to obtain a photograph. This
was the first time I had seen another plane at sea, and later I learned that in
all their Pacific crossings up to then Pan American ships had never sighted each
other. For Ed Musick, pilot on this clipper, this was a "first" too. Shortly,
with our greater speed, we slowly left the big flying boat astern. All of us, I
am sure, were impressed with the unusualness of meeting, and then leaving,
another plane out thee over the lonely stretches of the ocean. Unusual as such
an occurrence is today, before long it doubtless will be as commonplace as
passing transports on our continental airways.

Here are verbatim extracts from
my log book as they were pencilled in it that night over the Pacific:

Clipper ship
2 photographs.

1:15
rainbow

1.30 ship

Ice in carb. Rt
engine in and out.

Leaned too much.
Then rainbow.

Golden edged clouds ahead, then
the golden nothingness or sunset beyond. I am glad we started with as much
daylight as we did. Some of the squalls we have come through would have been
less pleasant at night.

Paul and I have some cocoa 3
hrs. Out. There is still a glow in the west. I have been flying most of the
time. Now Paul does and I watch instruments. Stars about. The navigators are
working like mad. Harry has just had a long radio discourse. The aft cabin is
lighted with a weird green blue light. Our instruments show pink.

The sky rose yellow.

The night has come. It is eleven
o'clock. Cal. time. The sea is lovely. Venus is setting ahead and to the right.
The moon is a lifesaver. It gives us horizon to fly by. It shines on the engine
cowls and into the cockpit.

We have much the same formation
as on my flight. fluff clouds, tho more open sea.

6-7 ours out. The stars are
brilliant but with the moon they cant be seen on horizon. Harry comes up to work
the radio. Paul flies while Harry works over my head. 6.35 Harry reports we're
ahead of the dead reckoning. Noonan is just figuring position. Gas so far is
o.k.

KFI just reported at 12:15 PST
Weather report from Steamer Monterey. Also W.T. Miller. Paul called Burbank on
3105.

Noonan asked to hold her steady
while he takes string of sights. Pan am in Oa Pan Am says to contact Honolulu
now 1 A.M.

Harry has just talked with Hon.
The moon has sunk into a bed of clouds. We are now using the Sperry to save our
eyes as there is practically no horizon. just the type of cloud formation and
lack of vis. I had last time, only then I had no Sperry. little helper.

Clouds are getting fuzzy I
think. for a while they were like mere firm white dumpling just under our wing.
Then they ran down hill and lay swallowed in the moonlight several thousand feet
below. now they are more formless. however stars still above.

The navigators are having
coffee. I smell it.

The night is clearer now. The
clouds are white with dark islands - where the sea shows through.

It is now 4.10 PST. We have been
flying over a stretch of open sea so the sky looks light. Now we reach some
clouds with holes in them. Now and then a star seems to rise from one of these
holes. Curious illusion.

The sky certainly seems lighter.
But its too early for dawn. I have just eaten an apple. Paul a tomato because
there wasn't any for him.

This was the first time since
the Friendship Flight in 1928 that I'd had company when voyaging over in ocean.
Not that there were any particularly social aspects about this experience. In
the cockpit we pilots were too constantly busy for much conversation, while the
navigators were equally occupied in their fuselage chart-room aft of the extra
fuel tanks, which in my Electra occupy much of the space normally used by
passengers. There they had the tools of their exacting trade - the business of
finding where one may be, from the stars, the sun and dead reckoning, aided by
such devices as sextants, octants, chronometers and drift indicator.

Communication between our
pilot's cockpit and the navigators in their cubbyhole was carried on by means of
a cut-down bamboo fish pole, with an office clip at the end to hold the cards
upon which pilots from the "navigation department." Not only was it important to
know our position at a given moment, but our rate of speed and the computation
of fuel consumption and quantity remaining in the tanks. incidentally, we
arrived at Hawaii with more than four hours' supply of gasoline remaining, which
would have given us over 600 miles of additional flying, a satisfactory safety
margin.

Compared with the Atlantic
flights, made without benefit of radio, this venture seemed almost chatty and
neighbourly. Constantly we were in touch with the world, almost surfeited with
the programs on which we could tune in, not to mention the messages broadcast
for our special benefit, and the periodic reports of our position and progress
we sent out. All of us were so occupied throughout the night there was no time
to doze, even had there been inclination. Indeed, there was hardly opportunity
to eat. We carried box lunches, but I noticed upon arrival very few sandwiches
were missing. I ate one sandwich myself and an apple. The others satisfied
themselves with hot chocolate and coffee, snatched in paper cups from the
thermos bottles.

Fred Noonan's navigation proved
all one could expect. Throughout the night the stars told him (via his bubble
octant) where we were, while Harry Manning worked the radio. At one point, when
we were a couple of hundred miles from Hawaii, Fred told me to drop down through
the clouds and steer a certain course. "Keep the Makapuu beacon ten degrees on
the starboard bow," he ordered.

What he meant was that I should
tune my Bendix radio direction finder to indicate the location of the beacon,
and then had the plane as he directed. This was the first time I had used this
recently developed Bendix instrument. On this Pacific hop it was one of the most
interesting and valuable on board, performing perfectly.

Here are some further extracts
from my flight diary:

Daylight comes at last. The
stars fade. We are throttled down to 120 indicated airspeed so not to arrive in
darkness. We are burning less than 20 gals. of gas at 10000 ft. We have tuned in
on Makapu. Keep it 10 degrees to starboard bow is the order.

The generator just went out.
Harry has held the key down so long it grew tired. Whats a gen. if he got his
bearings? We cant see yet what we're over. it might be desert. Looking back the
silhouetted clouds might be hills (rolling) against the twilight sky and now and
then we pass over a 'lake."

80 miles from Makapu. Fred says
start down.

At 5.40 in the morning, Honolulu
time, we sighted diamond head, that friendly landmark which I had last seen on
January 11, 1935, when at dusk on a cloudy afternoon my heavily laden Lockheed
Vega headed eastward bound for the California coast. It put in an appearance
through the morning mists exactly where and when Fred expected it, which was
most comforting. Making the landfall that morning was even pleasanter than my
first view of California's shore line two years ago. After all, it would require
ingenuity to miss a continent, which I as aiming for then. Hawaii, however, is
something else again and we all knew how easily it could be passed by.

I felt I owed an apology to the
people who rose early to greet us when we landed at Wheeler field. Perhaps I
should have been more considerate and tried to arrange the arrival at a later
hour. but that was difficult, because it was so desirable to time the departure
from Oakland in daylight. Having visited those lovely islands before, I was
accustomed to the very special hospitality of Hawaii, but I did not expect so
many of its friendly people to go without breakfast that they might welcome us.
And speaking of breakfast, a bright particular memory of the immediate
aftermaths of our arrival were the so-fresh scrambled eggs miraculously awaiting
us at the home of colonel and Mrs. John McDonnell.

We had hoped to push on to
Howland promptly but soon found that weather conditions to the southwestward
weren't what they might be. Delay was evidently inevitable. But if one has to
wait, in all the world thee is no pleasanter place to do the waiting than in
Honolulu. Again, as before on my 1935 Pacific solo, I was ensconced in the
lovely Waikiki beach home of Mr. and Mrs. Chris Holmes. Six hours of sleep
there, topped off by luxurious sun-bathing on the lanai, whence one may regard
the tropic scene through the rippling fronds of cocoanut palms, banished all
traces of fatigue. meals appeared wherever and whenever one awoke, while the
quantities of pineapple juice I consumed between times were fabulous.

Amelia and Fred, with a map showing
the Pacific stretch of

the flight. They finally took off May
21 from Oakland, California.

Back in the field Wilbur Thomas,
Pratt & Whitney's representative in Hawaii, was on his toes to get at the Wasp
engines. I told him he was one of the very few men in the world I would let
touch them before the time rolled around for their regular overhaul, many hours
away. Beautiful motors, you know, are sometimes best left alone when they are
functioning perfectly. However mine, under the best possible direction,
forthwith received appropriate mechanical rub-down and massage, so to speak,
just to keep them in the pink of condition. In passing, I do want to record some
"thank yous" among the many due hose who were kind to me. Army and navy officers
and men all contributed their utmost, my gratitude going particularly to General
Barton K. Young, Colonel John McDonnell, and Major Samuel Grierson. Two civilian
accomplices of my previous visit, "Bill" Cogswell and Nat Farbman - island
representatives of our good friend Sydney Bowman of San Francisco - were
helpfully on hand always. There are so many! Richard B. Black, and all the
personnel of the Itasca, with their fruitless waiting at Howland, bill Miller of
the Department of commerce, Lieutenant Frank Johnson of the Coast guard, Bob
Oertel of Standard Oil, women friends like Benigna Green and Bess Young at
Honolulu. And especially the mechanics and technicians who labored in and out of
hours at Burbank, Oakland, Honolulu, and elsewhere. To them I owe so much. Some
day I hope to shake their hands and have them know I realize what a helpless
part of any flight a pilot, without them, would be.

Our time - 15 hours and 47
minutes from Oakland to Honolulu had established a record for the east-west
crossing. That is an interesting commentary on the progress of flying equipment,
particularly as concerns speed. Actually, we were going about as slowly as
possible. We throttled back the engines and most of the way our craft was "under
wraps." For once, tail winds wee almost an embarrassment: so far as concerns
speed, it would have been easier to go faster. The Electra, or similar craft,
can comfortably cut a couple of hours off the left-handed record we set up 'most
any time under favouring conditions.

From Honolulu I wrote on march
19: "The element of speed as far from uppermost in such a flight as this. It
can't be. Quite truly, I'm in no hurry. It was disappointing yesterday that had
weather prevented us carrying on. But doubles similar delays will occur later.
My ambition is no time mark. There is no 'record' to shoot at. That twill come
for others later. We'll see globe-girdling flights whose brevity will take your
breath away. As for this present venture, I just went to progress as safely and
sanely as day-to-day conditions make possible, give myself and the Electra the
experience of seeing what we can of this very interesting world at its
waistline, and, with good fortune, get back with plane and pilot all "in one
piece.'"

Seemingly I spoke out of turn,
for the next morning my poor plane was anything but "in one piece." Badly
battered, it lay wrecked on the runway of Luke Field. In m life I had come to
realize that when thing were going very well indeed it was just the time to
anticipate trouble. And, conversely, I learned from pleasant experience that at
the most despairing crisis, when all looked sour beyond words, some delightful
"break" was apt to lurk just around the corner. The first gray light of day was
seeping down over the eastern hills upon Peal Harbor. From Wheeler, where we
landed, we had moved to Luke Field, where a fine 3,000-foot concrete runway
offered better take-off facilities. We had decided on a dawn start. It is
amazing how much can happen in one dawn. We had 900 gallons of gasoline on
board. That was almost as much as we carried coming from Oakland, although the
contemplated distance to Howland was 600 miles shorter than the first leg of the
journey. From the reports at hand I as doubtful of weather and wanted to take
along enough fuel to enable us to return after eight hours, if necessary for any
reason.

However, this load was not by
any means the ship's limit. Several times we had taken off comfortably with
greater weight. Indeed, so easily was the plane moving down the runway that I
thought the take-off was actually over. In ten seconds more we would have been
off he ground, with our landing gear tucked up and on our way southwestward.
There was not the slightest indication of anything abnormal. Ten seconds later
the airplane which brought us so gallantly to Honolulu lay helpless on the
concrete runway, a poor battered bird with broken wings. As for the crew, only
our spirits were bruised when this sudden disaster overtook us. by good fortune,
Harry manning, Fred Noonan and I emerged without a scratch. But the plane, her
landing gear wiped off and one wing damaged, was a sad sight to see. At that,
the comparatively slight damage was a fine testimonial to the sturdiness of
Lockheed construction - such an accident might well result in a total wash-out.
it was one of those incidents in aviation which, small in themselves, may have
vastly serious consequences. Witnesses said the tire blew. however, studying the
tracks carefully, I believe that may not have been the primary cause of the
accident. Possibly the landing gear's right shock absorber, as it lengthened,
may have given way.

Watchers on the ground saw the
wing drop. suddenly the plane pulled to my right. I reduced the power on the
opposite engine and succeeded in swinging from the right to he left. for a
moment I thought I would be able to gain control and straighten the course. but,
alas, the load was so heavy, once it started an arc thee was nothing to do but
let the plane ground loop as easily as possible. With the excessive weight, the
landing gear on the right was wrenched free and gasoline sprayed from the
drain-well. That there was no fire was surely the result of the generous good
wishes which had come to me from all over the world. No one of the three of us
on board was even shaken, a testimony to the safety of a modern metal plane such
as mine. In retrospect, I am thankful that the failure occurred where it did
rather than in some isolated corner of the world far from help. And I must say a
good word for Fred Noonan and Harry Manning. They were both as game as could be.
In fact, when the first men reached the plane and opened the cabin door, they
found Fred methodically folding up his charts. He said that then I flew again he
was read to go along.

I think it was not more than two
minutes after we emerged from the crack-up that I knew exactly what I wanted to
do - if ways and means could be devised for doing it. My own desire, I'm sure,
was et almost before the slithering slide along the concrete ended. "If we don't
burn up, I want to try again." Something like that flashed through my mind.
Miraculously, fire spared us. . . . the two minutes above mentioned
were needed to appraise the state of the plane itself. it were completely
washed out, I knew we'd not be able to get another. If it were repairable, I
thought we could carry on. Hasty examination indicated its broken bones could be
mended.

"Of course now you'll give up
the trip?" the speaker's inflection implied more a statement of fact than a
question. I shook my head. "I think not."

"Tough luck," another
newspaperman commiserated. "Anyway, you're fortunate to be alive. By the way, I
understand your husband will be greatly relieved because now you can't go on
with the flight." I knew better. Just to set the record straight, I was able
later to show the inquirer a telegram sent by Mr. Putnam immediately following
the accident after learning he still had a wife to wire to. This was the
message: "So long as you and the boys are o.k. The rest doesn't matter. After
all, it's just one of those things. Whether you want to call it a day or keep
going later is equally jake with me."

That considerate spirit was "jake"
with me, too! Anyway, he knew perfectly well I'd want to "keep going." Under the
circumstances he'd want to himself. I think my husband has always found a sort
of grim satisfaction - a species of modern martyrdom - in being, for once, the
male left behind while the female fares forth adventure-bound, thus turning
topsy-turvy the accepted way of the world in such matters.

Interlude

The plane and its crew back in
California, the obvious task was not to lament the past but prepare for the
future. Like broken bones which Nature knits slowly in her own special process,
the injured parts of an airplane must be painstakingly restored. There is no
short cut to full usefulness in either case if perfect healing is desired. In
addition to "healing," a strengthening of certain members to withstand the
excessive strain to which overloading subjects them as in order for my Electra.
This meant some actual redesigning, another process which could not be hurried.
As to the precious engines, they were already in the Pacific Airmotive shops at
Burbank being thoroughly checked. After the plane and engines were together,
some time would have to be allowed for testing.

With the rebuilding of the plane
in hand, our next task was to appraise the effect of delay upon our flying
plans. We had picked mid-March as about the best time for the flight from the
standpoint of weather - so far as one could expect consistent "bests" on such a
long route. Setting back the date three months would see seasons relentlessly
progress. In some places progress would be with benefit to pilots, in others the
reverse. Here rains began, there they abated, here winds were favourable, there
monsoons and choking dust-storms wee due. So we set to studying again the
weather maps of the world and consulting with meteorologists who know the habits
of fogs and rains and temperatures around the long equator. The upshot of those
consultations was that I decided to reverse the direction originally chosen for
the flight. Earlier it had seemed that the advantage lay in passage to the west,
at the later date the contrary appeared true. After all, for practical purpose
and disregarding Mr. Einstein, the world measures the same distance from west to
east, as east to west, on any given route.

A compelling factor in our
decision was the probable imminence in the Caribbean and African areas of much
less favourable weather later than early June. So it seemed sensible to get this
part of the journey over as promptly as possible. Also we altered the original
course which was to have been from Brazil up through Panama, Central America and
Mexico. Instead of following that route I decided that the journey across the
United States to Miami could be a practical shake-down flight, testing the
rebuilt ship and its equipment, and thereby saving the time of running such
tests in California. At Miami I knew there was fine mechanical assistance to
master such "bugs" as developed in the 3,000 mile transcontinental trip. We had
worked for many months making the original plans. By reversing the route we
abandoned much that had been arranged and brought a new welter of detail down
upon ourselves and, I fear, considerable inconvenience to others.

Supplies of fuel and oil, spare
parts and mechanics, had been spotted at many points. The revision of all this
involved sundry headaches. For instance, under the original schedule thee was to
have been an engine overhaul at Karachi for which my Wasps would have been ripe
by the time we reached here as originally planned. The very day we landed in
Honolulu the technician elected for that job started by air from London to
Karachi so as to be on hand in ample time. Arriving in India he was greeted by
the news of our Honolulu crack-up and forthwith turned around and went home
again. Naturally all that was at our expense. Those days in April and May were
full of horrid realization like the costly Karachi excursion, forcibly driving
home the sad truth that the stress and strains of an airplane accident and its
aftermaths are just as severe financially as they are mechanically. On the
prosaic dollar-and-cent side friends helped generously, but even so, to keep
going I more-or-less mortgaged the future. Without regret, however, for what
are futures for?

Revising the Pacific program was
a sizeable task in itself. The Coast Guard had arranged its routine cutter
cruise to Howland Island so as to be on hand thee at the time of my flight, and
other provisions had been made by the navy. All that had to be worked out again,
with a minimum of inconvenience to official plans. Then there was the matter of
"permissions." We had already accumulated, with the kindly co-operation of the
State Department, an impressive collection of credentials. They wee
multitudinous and varied. In addition to routine passports and visas, in much of
the territory it was necessary to secure special authority to land a plane. here
and thee wee forbidden regions over which one might not fly. In and over other
territories no firearms or motion picture cameras were permitted. Medical
credentials were necessary; pilot and navigator were swollen with a full
personal cargo of vaccines and inoculations. A couple of countries required
testimonial of character and a negative police record. These I contrived.

All these arrangements were made
through the State Department which I surmise must grow wear of such activities
foisted upon it by peripatetic pilots. Its good nature under the stress of my
troublesome requests is perhaps just a normal symptom of trained diplomacy. but
before the State Department could officially act, it was necessary for me to
have the approval of the Department of Commerce which has authority over civil
flying. my craft had to be declared airworthy for the task in hand, and its
pilot competent. it was necessary to secure this sanction all over again for the
second start. It is only fair to record that the Bureau of Aeronautics probably
would have preferred that I abandon the effort. Its policy was to discourage
extracurricular undertakings of the kind, the common or garden term for which
sometimes is "stung flights." But having granted me permission once, the ship,
personnel and flight plan being the same, it would have been difficult to
withdraw it.

During these two months I was
seemingly busier even than before. Nearly every day thee wee hours at the
Lockheed plant, consulting with engineers Hibbard, Gersler and Johnson, or
checking into the thousand-and-one details of the rebuilding with Harvey
Christian and Firman Grey in charge of the job. With my technical adviser Paul
Mantz, and the others, we worked out many refinements of technique in the
installation of fuel lines, tanks, dump valves, instruments and the rest of it.
Because of our changed direction and re-routing over the Caribbean, thee was
much to be done with our charts, mostly worked out by Fred Noonan and me. And
with all, there were pleasant interludes of domesticity involving the completion
of our new home not far from the airport at Burbank, and some treasured
getting-away-from-all visits near Indio.

And my mail! A good way to
realize how many people would like to fly around the world is to start such an
undertaking and then see what the mail man brings. Many of m most precious
letters came from youngsters. To air-minded youth - especially in the lower
brackets of youthfulness - a jaunt around the equator appears petty inviting.
Judging from the messages, a staggering number of boys and girls stood ready
embark with me - bless their hearts.

"I am 15 years old, 105 pounds,
quiet and want to see the world. I have no money, but will work my head off. .
. ." That was from Michigan. Mostly, the volunteers ranged in age from ten
to fifteen years, as many girls as boys. But where were grown-ups too. A
persistent applicant listed among his qualifications that he was "a single fella"
and carried "Government life insurance which is good in case killed in an
airplane." there was a sweet child in Kentucky who begged: "Please teach me to
fly. . . . I will repay you if it takes the rest of my life. .
. . I haven't got much because my father loads coal in a mine." then the
custom of being "named after." It's a common phenomenon for babies to have
fastened on them the names of newsworthy people, and divers infants, apparently,
have been inflicted with "Amelia." but the habit doesn't stop there.

"Behind a brick plant near our
home," recorded a little girl, "thee is a beautiful little lake with blueish
water so I named it "Lake Amelia" . . . I had no middle name so I
adopted 'Amelia' as my middle name. I would have named my duck Amelia but since
it is a he duck I can't." A namesake I enjoyed meeting later was a Wyeth-Logan
cross dark hen introduced to me at the airport in Miami. In case you don't know,
that's a homing pigeon. She holds the record for the fastest flying (pigeon) in
Florida - as I recall, something over fifty miles per hour. her owner
permitted me to hold and release her with what I fear must have seemed to
Amelia a thoroughly unprofessional chuck into the air.

"She'll fly straight home," said
Mr. Hamilton. "By the time I get back she'll be on her nest."

"A good example!" that was my
husband's dour comment. "My dear, you might get pointers about this homing
instinct."

Criticism, good -natured and
otherwise, sometimes becomes a bit personal. I suspect it's always an open
season for aviatrix. My hair, and the state it's often in is apt to be an object
of uncomplimentary comment. The Sage of Kansas (I was born there) is concerned
about that hair. Wrote William Allen White in the Emporia Gazette, after
we'd started for Honolulu.

"Amelia Earhart is speeding
across the Pacific on her round-the-world flight. She will have long boresome
hours with little to do and much to think about. If we could catch her we would
have just this one message, about as follows: 'Amelia dream, we knew our puppy
when he was an amiable, care-free cake-eater in the University of Kansas, fifty
years ago. So we have a right to take you aside and tell you something. It is
this - we hope to heaven when you wee packing your grip you put in a pocket
comb. For you certainly need to comb your hair. now is the time to get the
tangles out and give it a good straightening. So in the long lone watches over
the gray and melancholy ocean, comb your head, kid, comb your head!'"

But to return to our renewed
flight plans. In retrospect I came almost to welcome our Honolulu mishap. That
may have been either the mechanism of self-defensive philosophy, or just good
sense. High as was the price paid, it seemed as if the knowledge gained was
almost worth the cost. I mean in such things as better arrangements in
navigation facilities and radio, exact reactions of the plane under heavy load
conditions at various altitudes, and appreciation of its superb performance in
taking off. "has the accident shaken your confidence?" That question was asked
me many times. Its answer was clear in my mind. Nothing which happened changed
my attitude towards the original project. indeed, I felt better about the ship
and its equipment that I ever did before. I was eager to fly it again.

The plane's performance had been
all that could be asked. If anyone had cause to lament, it was the Electra
itself. For I put burdens upon her which in normal flying she was not built to
bear. She carried a heavy overload. As a matter of fact, very few times since we
started our partnership have I flown her without one. come to think of it, most
of my flying for some years has been with overloaded planes seeking distance
performance. so that the problems - and the risks - of this phase of the flight
were not unfamiliar to me.

Speaking of loads, the human
cargo for the next flight was paired down. As Captain Manning had to return to
his Atlantic command, his place as navigator was taken by Fred Noonan, whose
desire to go along seemed unshaken by our experience. As to Noonan, I came to
realize that there was a humanitarian aspect to the flight. Shortly before the
Oakland take-off Fred was in a serious automobile accident. Soon after our
return to California he survived another highway smash-up. So he and Mrs. Noonan
were eager for him to take to the air for safety!

Miami

The rebuilt Electra came out of
the Lockheed plant on May 19. Two days later we flew it to Oakland where our
friend Elmer Dimity quietly slipped on board the cargo of "covers"*
carried for philatelists. As
that time we had made no announcement of my decision to reverse the direction of
the flight. It seemed sensible to slip away as quietly as we could. While I was
actually heading for Miami, with hope of keeping on from there eastward,
technically the journey from Burbank across the country was a shake-down flight.
If difficulties developed we would bring the ship back to the Lockheed plant for
further adjustments.

*These
had voyaged on the first flight to Honolulu and then had been returned to
Oakland. They wee the ship's only "payload" sold by a large New York department
store in New York to collectors. The risk of final return and delivery perforce
was assumed by the purchaser, whose share of the gamble was infinitesimal
compared with the pilot's.

Accompanying me on this hop
across the continent was Fred Noonan. "Bo" McKneely my mechanic, and Mr. Putnam.
A leisurely afternoon's flight ended at Tucson, Arizona. The weather was sailing
hot as Arizona can be in summertime. After landing and checking in, when I
started my motors again to taxi to the filling pit the left one back-fired and
burst into flames. for a few seconds it was nip-and-tuck whether the fire would
get away from us. There weren't adequate extinguishers ready on the ground but
fortunately the Lux apparatus built in the engine killed the fire. The damage
was trivial, mostly some pungently cooked rubber fittings a deal of dirty grime.
The engine required a good cleaning and the ship a face-washing.

On this trip when someone asked
how many times I'd flown across the continent I realized that I actually did not
know. My coast-to-coat commuting has been going on for quite some years now, in
planes of many sorts, from m first little Avro Avion, and an autogyro, up to the
Electra. Not to mention many crossings on the air line, and about half-a-dozen
by automobile. Adding it all up, it's hard to know just when I was static enough
to get much done that required doing in one place. The next morning at Tucson a
dense sandstorm blocked our way. but despite it we took off, leap-frogging at
8,000 feet over El Paso with a seemingly solid mass of sand billowing below us
like a turbulent yellow sea. That night we reached new Orleans and on Sunday
morning, May 23, headed on southeastward for Miami. From New Orleans we laid a
straight course across the north-easterly "corner" of the gulf of Mexico to
Tampa, a matter of about 400 miles. It was Bo's first considerable over-water
flying and I am not sure he was very enthusiastic about it. That Sunday
afternoon we reached Miami, and dug in for a week of final preparation, with the
generous aid of Pan American personnel.

*
* *

(In the days that followed, A.E. had no time to
write. "We'll catch up on that later," she said. "I want to do a careful
account of this final job of getting ready for a long flight. It's really
colorful and I think could be made interesting even for nonflyers."

The opportunity to "catch up" never came. Instead of
filling myself, I've chosen to present something of the story of that work
before departure in words written at the time by C.B. Allen of the New York
Herald Tribune, a good friend who was with us at Miami.

G.P.P.)

*
* *

"Those who had an opportunity to observe miss Earhart
at Miami I final preparations for her round-the-world flight could to help
being impressed by the calm and unhurried manner in which he made sure that
everything about her hip was as ready as expert technicians could make it
before she would consider starting the trip. There was no hurrying or harassing
of mechanic to finish their wok o that she might take off at a given time, no
slightest indication of impatience when a difficult job took longer to finish
than might have been expected. "it was interesting to watch the effect of such
an attitude on the Pan American Airways mechanics and others who were assigned
to give Miss Earhart whatever assistance they could. Being men and being
engaged in a highly essential phase of the serious business of air
transportation, they all naturally had preconceived notions about a woman
pilot bent on a 'stunt' flight - not very favourable notions, either. it was,
undoubtedly, something of a shock to discover that the 'gal' with whom they
had to deal not only was an exceptionally pleasant and reasonable human being
who 'knew her stuff,' but that she knew exactly what she wanted done, and had
sense enough to let them alone while they did it. There was an almost audible
clatter of chips falling off sceptical masculine shoulders.

"Any lingering doubts were dispelled when it
developed that this particular woman aviator not only was thoroughly familiar
with every part of the her airplane, but was not above helping push it in and
out of the hangar or lending a hand on any job where it was needed or her
advice or presence was required. A little grease or oil on her olive dab
slacks or plaid, short-sleeved shirt, or even in hr tousled hair habitually
was dismissed by Miss Earhart with a chuckle when anyone called her attention
to the matter. it did not escape the sharp-eyed mechanics that autograph
seekers and photographers who hovered about the municipal airport inevitably
caught up with the air-woman other than her catching up with them, and that,
while she was unfailingly good-natured and obliging, she ducked these
incidents as much as possible. Habitually gracious both to these
representatives of her 'public', and to the technicians working on her plane,
Miss Earhart conducted herself simply and naturally, showing no irritation,
even on occasions when she must have felt it, and refusing at all times to
resort to he technique called 'turning on the charm.'

"Ordinarily when thee was a prospect that she would
be needed to take her ship up to test its equipment, she ate lunch at the
'greasy spoon' restaurant across the highway from the airport and reported her
pleased discovery that the food was as good as that at downtown hotels. she
was particularly delighted to find out that the 'greasy spoon' served rich,
creamy buttermilk, flecked with bits of butter-hr favourite beverage. At
intervals during her stay she protested plaintively that she wanted to take
time out for a swim and a sun bath, "but I just don't get a chance.' She got
several roastings from the blistering tropical sun while sitting in the
pilot's cabin of her all-metal plane on the airport testing its instruments
and engines, but insisted that this was 'not the same thing at all as a good
sun bath; I want to soak up a little sunshine, not be fried by it.'

"Probably the best time Miss Earhart had in Miami was
when she visited the Pan American Airways' international air terminal and
maintenance base at Dinner key and was taken for a tour of the big
hanger-workshops where the company's Sikorsky Clipper ships are hauled out of
the water for inspection after each flight, and periodically overhauled. her
escort on this occasion was W.G. Richards, the air line's chief mechanic, who,
like all the other workmen who came into contact with Miss Earhart, appeared
to have been completely sold on her ability and personality. Mr Richards
fairly glowed under Miss Earhart's expert appraisal of the 'amazing
efficiency' apparent in very department of the maintenance base, and the
willingness with which all Pan American personnel assigned to work on her ship
kept at the job attested how relived they were to discover that she was
something other than 'a temperamental woman who thinks she can fly.'

"Noonan, of course, renewed a lot of old
acquaintances during the visit to dinner key, being one of the oldest veterans
of the Pan American system, and it was interesting to see his friends'
attitude changing in light of their firsthand observations of Miss Earhart.
previously they had been inclined to feel al little bit sorry for 'poor old
Fred, flying around the world like this with a woman pilot'; now they were
willing to concede that 'poor old Fred' needed no sympathy, that he evidently
had signed up with 'the pick of the lot' of women aviators, just as they
believe that she chose one of the best aerial navigators in the world."

In a letter sent to
his wife at Oakland when the flight had run about half in scheduled
course, Fred Noonan wrote: "Amelia is a grand person for such a trip.
She is the only woman flyer I would care to make such an expedition
with. Because in addition to being a fine companion and pilot, she can
take hardship as well as a man - and work like one."

(Those who knew A.E. best, and especially those who
saw her working with the men who were prep0aring her ship, realized her
delight in the job at hand. She was seldom happier, I think, than when perched
on a service-stand watching some adjustment of her beloved engines, or
sprawled on the concrete tarmac observing experts wrestle with a troublesome
strut or dump valve. And probably as grimy as a grease monkey. . .
. It's illuminating to record what she'd planned for her first "party"
following her return, a characteristic house-warming of her new home in
Southern California. The guests wee to be exclusively the men (and their
wives) who had worked on her plane, the gang who had "put out" the best they
had, in hours and out of hours, at the Lockheed plant, at union Air Terminal,
and at Oakland. She had a full list of them. They were the ones whose help she
wanted them to know she appreciated.

G.P.P.)

Prior to that dawn of June first, when A.E. took her
silver plane up into the sunrise at Miami, she confided a secret. Before
getting on with its pilot's story of Last flight itself, I close this chapter
with this brief piece of Carl Allen's, written by him later:

"Amelia Earhart's equatorial flight around the world
was to have been her last great aerial adventure - a final fling at spectacular
flying before she settled down to the more or less prosaic existence of
participation in routine phases of aviation. She confided this to one or two
friends just before she started.

"'I have a feeling that thee is just about one more
good flight left in my system,' she said, 'and I hope this trip is it. Anyway,
when I have finished this job, I mean to give up long-distance 'stunt"
flying.'

"Miss Earhart hastened to add that this was by no
means an announcement of an intended retirement from flying. On the contrary,
she said that she meant to continue flying in connection with her lecturing
and other work, and that one of the first things she wanted to do after
completing a world flight was to carry out an extensive flight research
program at Purdue University.

"'But the fact that you are through with
long-distance air exploits when this flight is over is a darned good news
story,' Miss Earhart was reminded. 'Why can't that be written as soon as you
are safely on your way?'

"She shook her head. She said that she was
constitutionally opposed to advance announcements any more than was absolutely
necessary; that 'so many things can happen' to change one's program 'or even a
woman's mind.' With what soon had the appearance of uncanny foresight.

"'If you use that story at all, wait until the
round-the-world flight is over, or nearly over; I think it would be absurd to
make such an announcement now, especially if I should be forced to give up my
present program or to postpone it, for any reason, when I had only just
started.'

"Miss Earhart said that her decision to retire from
the stunt-flying arena was prompted b a number of reasons. Among them was the
repeated urging of her husband that she give up hazardous flight attempts, her
own feeling that she had don her fair share in this field and the growing
conviction 'that I'm getting old and want to make way for the younger
generation before I'm feeble, too.'"

The Start

On June 1, at 5.56 in the morning, NR 16020 left
Municipal Airport at Miami with Fred Noonan aboard as navigator and I as
pilot, bound for California by about the longest route we could contrive. At
the very last there was a delay while Bo McKneely, my mechanic, resoldered a
broken thermocouple lead which supplied the cylinder head temperatures of the
left engine. While this went on, all warmed up and plenty of places to go, we
sat for a last breathing spell on the concrete apron beside the hangar
watching the rising sun brush back the silver gray of dawn.

The tinkering job completed, back in place went the
cowling.

"Okeh," said Bo.

Fred climbed in the cockpit and my husband, standing
alongside on the wing centre-section, leaned in and bade me good-by. I closed
and fastened the hatch. The gathering crowd safely distant from the propeller
blades, ground attendants signalled "All clear." In a last look through the
window I spied nearby the Viking blond head of Mr. Putnam's son, David, and
waved to him. Then I started the motors. The engines had already been well
warmed so now after appraising for a moment their full-throated smooth song, I signalled to have the wheel chocks removed and we taxied to the end of the
runway in the far southeast corner of the field. thirty seconds later,
with comforting ease, we were in the air and on our way.

After the take-off for thirteen minutes we climbed
slowly, swinging on our course toward Puerto Rico. Beautiful in the early
morning light was the curving line made where the blue depths of the gulf
Stream met the aquamarine of the shoal waters off the coast. Now and then as
we flew along I thought we glimpsed the outlines of shadowy fish, dark against
the pale sand below. Legend has it that sailfish are found thereabout. I say
"legend" because our one day's fishing from Miami, when we played
hockey from
airport chores, was totally unsuccessful. neither on the fringes of the Gulf
Stream nor elsewhere did we capture a single fish of any kind. So to me their
existence remains merely hearsay, though I am more than willing to give my
enthusiastic Florida friends the benefit of every doubt - even to the point of
agreeing that, as someone cruelly remarked, "as a fisherman Miss Earhart is a
good pilot."

Shortly after six o'clock two ships wee visible. It
was then, with them beneath us, when everything in the cockpit was properly
set and working smoothly, I tuned in on Miami's radio station WQAM, which was
broadcasting every hour a summary of weather conditions which lay before us,
as prepared by Pan American's efficient meteorologists. My own schedule called
for a broadcast every thirty minutes at a quarter past and a quarter to the
hour. I was delayed a little with my first broadcast because just then the
radio station was sending out a description of my own take-off, which to me
was quite too entertaining to miss. The masterpiece was evidently transcribed
from a description made by an announcer at the field. The actual take-off hour
being too early for most civilized stay-a-bed Miamians, the record was now
being played on the air again for their delectation while they ate their
breakfasts and we winged southward.

So, a hundred miles from the field, the announcer
held me in cruel suspense as to whether or not I actually was going to get off
safely! it was diverting to hear that third-person story. In the manner
radio-talk sometimes have, the account of the very normal departure had become
breathlessly exciting. As the sun rose higher, the sea became hazy. A few
fuzzy clouds sailed lazily beneath the silver wings of the ship. Fed Noonan
was not enjoying the scenery as such, but spotting conformations of the
islands beneath us, and looking for lighthouses with which to check our course
and rate of speed. From P.A.A. experience, all this was ground - and water -
well-known to him. At six-thirty we sighted the great reef of the Bahama
banks. At about seven o'clock, Andros Island stretched out as a vivid green
rug before our eyes. The fringe of that rug was formed by the varicolored
tendrils of the sea reaching fingerlike into the islands, some resembling
vivid green snakes wriggling in a maritime Garden of Eden.

The beauties of these tropic seas viewed from the air
were in sharp contrast to the leaden dullness of the North Atlantic and far
reaches of the Pacific Ocean, as I have seen them from aloft. My pencilled log,
scribbled on the cockpit as we flew, records that off Andros we sighted a
partly submerged wreck, mute testimony of a tragedy of long ago. Also such
lines as these: "We look down upon little rocks and reefs which just poke
their heads above the water. So few lighthouses in this mess - one pities the
poor mariner. . . . On some solider ground we saw trees in black silhouette
against the burnished sunpath . . . . A friendly course. Hardly out of sight
of our island but another pancakes on the horizon. . . . The shadows of clouds
(white clouds in the blue sky) are like giant flowers, dark on the green sea.
. . . curtains of rain clouds aloft . . . the sun shines weakly through the
overcast which keeps down temperature, at 4800 feet it is only 80 degrees
outside. . . . Sperry has been flying much of the time. . . . Tuned in at
about 1300 on a Spanish station and heard my name. . . . Sea and sky are
indistinguishable; there is nothing to see. . . . F.N. smells land."

What with such expert navigational help and the
assistance of the Sperry gyropilot. I began to feel that my long-range flying
was becoming pretty sissy. The ease and casualness wee further accentuated by
the marvellous help given by radio. Were I alone on such a trip as this, I would
be hopping along shorelines, my attention divided between flying the ship and
attempting to keep track of exactly where I was. At about noon Navigator
Noonan told me we were too far south and I changed my course as directed. At
the moment thee was nothing to see but indistinguishable sea and sky. And then
suddenly through a haze we sighted Puerto Rico. That was just after noon.
Checking the time, I was reminded that I'd eaten nothing at all since the
before-dawn breakfast at a lunch-counter in Miami, a thousand miles behind us.
Later, Fred told me he had indulged in one sandwich and some coffee.

Following along the shoreline we came soon to the
airport, close beside the colourful city of San Juan. it was odd to see a four-masted
schooner anchored practically just off the runway. Later I found she had
brought cod from Nova Scotia to return "down east" with Turks Island salt.
Once on the ground the matter of my neglected meal very promptly was attended
to, our luncheon hostess being Mrs. Thomas Rrodenbaugh, wife of the Pan
American manager. Acting governor Menendez Ramoa generously offered
hospitality, but we had made arrangements to impose ourselves upon a fellow
pilot who was on hand to greet us. She-as my husband sometimes says, "Women
pilots pop up from under stones 'most anywhere' - was miss Clara Livingston,
one of the few private flyers on the island. Once the formalities of our
arrival and the grooming of the Electra were cared for, we drove out to
Clara's plantation, twenty miles from town.

A great advantage in visiting a pilot is knowing that
one's host comprehends a pilot's needs. Which, when much flying lies ahead,
are mostly negative. By which I mean not having things done for one, and
instead being allowed to do nothing. which sounds involved, but perhaps isn't.
We wanted quiet and sleep. When politely possible, it was helpful to avoid
functions and people - even the pleasantest people, for meeting and talking to
them adds immeasurably to the fatigue factor, nervous and physical. Clara
proved the perfect hostess. her hospitality under the circumstances was
exactly right. She stoically resisted all temptation involving social
trimmings. She had only one complaint. Fred, it appears, insulted her view.
Sitting on the front balcony, despite the lovely tropic vista before him, he
went sound asleep. In our ears that evening was the surge of the sea at the
very front door, background for the soothing song of frogs and night insects.
No sounds of traffic, no radio, in Clara's sixteen hundred acre queendom, and
straight northward no neighbour all the way to Greenland.

One conversation I did have that night, before our
eight o'clock going-to-bed. That was by telephone with my husband, who talked
from the office of Ellis Hollums in the Herald office in Miami. It appeared
that the little account of our day's progress which I had sent to the cable
office to be forwarded to newspapers had not gone. I never did discover
whether the local operator just didn't think it was worth bothering with. At
that, he was probably correct. It's hard to turn correspondent after one has
been a pilot all day. . . . But especially, I suspect, Mr. Putnam just wanted
to say "Good night." that was pleasant. At San Juan by the way, I was asked,
as often, just why I was attempting the flight, and especially why on this
second start I had delayed announcing my intention of proceeding eastward. The
answers, such as they are, are perhaps worth repeating here. So much was
written before and after the March 17 take-off at Oakland, and following the
Honolulu accident, that I thought it would be a pleasant change just to slip
away without comment. The extent of the publicity accompanying the first start
was unsolicited and doubtless more than the flight deserved even if it had
been successful.

The fact is that the career of one who indulges in
any kind of flying off the beaten path is often complicated. for instance, if
one gives out plans beforehand, one is likely to be charged with publicity
seeking by those who do not know how difficult it is to escape the competent
gentlemen of the press. On the other hand, if one slips away, as I have
generally tried to do, the slipper-away invites catcalls from those who earn
their living writing and taking photographs. So I am hoping the pros and cons
of the whole undertaking can wait until it is finally over. If I am
successful, the merits and demerits can be threshed out then. If not, someone
else will do what I have attempted and I'll pass the problem on to him - or
her.